


The Secret of Black Hall  (A Three 'A's Adventure)

by inamac



Series: The Adventures of the Three As [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Period: WWII
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/inamac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>September 1939. Arabella and Argus are evacuated to the country and are met by the daughter of the house, Gussie Longbottom, but before their journey is over they have become embroiled with spies and enemy agents – and witness the birth of the Order of the Phoenix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret of Black Hall  (A Three 'A's Adventure)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for HP-Friendship challenge 2012 to a prompt asking for "Squibs who are childhood friends with a wizard/witch, how the friendship prevents them from separating completely from wizarding society, with glimpses of how wizarding society works, missing canon moments."
> 
> This story draws on the tropes of 1940s British childrens fiction, in particular the works of Enid Blyton.

## The Secret of Black Hall

"Such a pity." Walburga Black's cup rattled as she set it down in the saucer. "Having to take in squibs. Not _quite_ the thing."

Augusta Longbottom paused in her levitation practice, allowing the fine needle she was balancing to hover over the embroidery hoop. She was old enough, at twenty-one, to have her own opinions about social mores, but Aunt Walburga was a visitor, if not a welcome one, and it was not her business to interrupt any conversation between her elders. Politeness held her tongue.

"I expect they'll be helpful around the place," her mother replied. "One must do one's bit for the War effort. And it would look odd if we didn't take in some of these children. London isn't safe for squibs."

Walburga sniffed. "All the more reason to keep them there. Let them take their chances with the mudbloods and Muggle-lovers."

Augusta very nearly lost control of her needle. As it was it snaked up to the end of its silk tether before stabbing down into the fabric, making a neat but unintended French Knot. Her darling Lawrence was in London, doing his duty for the War effort. And his letters, arriving by bedraggled pigeon rather than by owl, and black with Ministry censorship, made it clear how vital his work was. Britain needed every competent wizard available to maintain the magical defences, and to protect Muggle and wizard alike from the threat of invasion. And yet the Blacks, who prided themselves on their pedigree and their powers, had been among the first to abandon their London house and flee to the illusory safety of their country estate. Augusta hoped, with uncharacteristic violence, that one of the threatened Muggle bombs might land on Black Hall, just to demonstrate that pure blood was no defence against pure evil.

"You won't be taking any of these evacuees yourself, then?" Her mother's voice held only a trace of the sarcasm that Augusta would have employed, and Walburga did not notice it. She used her wand to replenish her tea, without deigning to ask her hostess, or to offer a refill to either of the other women.

"Heavens no! Squibs in Black Hall? The very idea is unthinkable! Besides, the place is full. I have important foreign visitors. We Blacks have always opened our house to those who have the true interests of the Wizarding world at heart."

Politicians, thought Augusta. Or rich refugees paying their way into what safety the English countryside offers. Unwilling to listen any longer she set aside her needlework and rose from the window seat. 

The movement caught her mother's eye. "Are you all right, dear?" she asked.

She nodded. "I just need a little air. I thought I might take the Baluch down to the station to meet these children."

Mother spoke over Walburga's snort of derision, "Well, if you're sure. Do be careful. You shouldn't be too energetic in your condition."

"Mother, the baby isn't due for months yet. Not 'til after Christmas, and the War will be over by then and Lawrence will be back here. I'll be fine." She hurried from the room before she had to listen to Walburga's exclamations – she really had not wished her pregnancy to become the talk of the coven of older pure blood witches led by Mrs Black. With any luck the old witch would have gone back to her gloomy Hall and her doubtless gloomier guests by the time that she got back from the station with these squib children.

She threw on her cloak, collected an umbrella from the stand in the hall, and strode down to the carriage house to fetch the Baluch.

o0o

The platform at Kings Cross was crowded with people. Arabella wondered whether this was what it was like waiting for the Hogwarts Express. If she tried very hard she could imagine that the harassed adults trying to sort out the crowds of children were Wizard Professors, and that the cases and boxes standing on the platform and clutched in small hands, contained magical books, potions and spell-ingredients and caged familiars, instead of mundane clothes, sandwiches, and the ever-present gas masks.

At nine years old she was very aware that this was probably the nearest that she would ever come to the reality of that first train journey to the Wizard's School, and she was determined to make the most of the experience.

The other children on the platform were Muggles, and she watched with interest as they were marshalled together by the few harassed-looking adults, sorted into groups, issued with labels bearing their names and addresses, and bundled onto the waiting train. She was so fascinated that she did not notice the elderly wizard who had been put in charge of the evacuees from the magical community returning with a thin, sour-faced boy in tow.

"Oh good," he said. You're still here. Got your label?"

She nodded, tugging at the bedraggled card tied through the top buttonhole of her coat. She wondered whether the Muggles were really so silly that they couldn't remember their own names and addresses and had to be treated like parcels.

"Right. Well, you're to travel in the end compartment. It's a corridor train, but there are no toilets – so you are not to drink anything on the journey." He looked very stern, and Arabella decided not to mention the charmed bottle of blackberry juice which her mother had packed. She and the boy nodded solemnly and the wizard bustled them along the platform to the rear of the train. "Come along."

Both children grabbed their bags and boxes and ran to keep up. Doors were slamming all along the train, and voices were raised with last minute questions and hurried goodbyes. The Muggles didn't seem to notice the odd little group as they climbed aboard. The wizard waved his wand to close the door – a slip which only Arabella saw – and waved them off, mouthing something, warning or farewell it was impossible to tell, as a long whistle sounded from the engine and the wheels began to turn and rumble over the tracks. They were off!

The children watched from the windows, waving and calling until the last carriage slipped past the end of the platform, and the great iron arches of the station were lost against the grey London skyline. It was only then that Arabella had the opportunity to examine her companion. 

"What's your name?" she asked. "Mine's Arry."

He stared at her, with an expression she knew all too well, doubt and contempt. "Harry? That's a boys name."

She grinned; he obviously wasn't a Londoner, though he knew about dropped Cockney aiches. She  
hastened to explain. " Well, actually it's Arabella, but I don't like that. I prefer Arry. Harry if you like. For my friends. We are going to be friends, aren't we." She thrust out her hand, and the boy took it gingerly.

"I'm Argus," he said, in the tones of one steeled for ridicule. 

She shook it firmly. "Hello Argus. That's a proper Wizard's name. Your family must be very old."

He shrugged. "I s'pose so."

Clearly he was still a bit bewildered by the whole business. Arabella decided to take charge. She picked up her case and hauled it into their designated compartment. "Come on then, Argus."

The train had picked up speed now, and they swayed along the short corridor and almost fell into the compartment. There were two rows of four seats facing each other but they, and the racks above them, were empty. Clearly if there had been other wizard children scheduled for this evacuation journey they had missed this train.

"All the more room for us." Arabella said, when Argus expressed concern that they might be in the wrong place. She sat down in the engine-facing window seat and opened her case. "What card games can you play?"

Argus looked aghast. "That's cartomancy. I'm not allowed."

Arabella swiftly revised her plans and eviscerated the Major Arcana from her pack. She started to shuffle the remainder. "That's all right. I'll teach you a Muggle game. It's called 'Snap'."

The train sped on across the anonymous countryside, passing through blank-signed stations, and stopping at unmarked halts. The children finished one game, and consumed their sparse rations before embarking on another. At length, Argus' fidgeting in his seat made an exploration of the train in search of toilet facilities a priority that overrode the wizard's parting warning about not drinking. 

Arabella's suspicion that he had lied proved well founded. She had completed her ablutions, and was re-sorting the cards, when Argus arrived back in the carriage, wild-eyed with excitement.

He made sure that the compartment door was closed behind him, and that the blinds were drawn before leaning close and lowering his voice. "Harry, I think that there are wizards on this train."

"Well of course there are," she said. "There's us."

He shushed her. She had not whispered and her normal speaking volume seemed unnaturally loud by contrast with his hushed tones, though there was no one else to hear.

"No, silly. I mean _real_ wizards. When I was going down to the toilet I saw a girl in one of the carriages doing magic. I bet she's a spy."

Arabella looked at him. She had, years ago, come to terms with her lack of magic and had been encouraged by her parents, both of whom came from a long line of wizards which included muggle-born and squib ancestors, to make the most of what talents she had. And one of those talents was common sense. She had heard about families who disowned squib children, but had never come across anyone who really believed that squibs weren't 'real' wizards. Clearly she was going to have to educate this boy in reality and logic. "A spy?" she asked. "Why would there be a wizard spy on a Muggle train?"

"To find out where they're taking us of course. My uncle says that Mr Hitler has spies everywhere. They've forced the Muggles to send their children out of London so that they can drop bombs on the places where they send us. It's called..."

"It's called nonsense," said Arabella firmly. She had seen the posters, a ghostly uniformed figure with a toothbrush moustache urging a distraught mother to take her children back to the cities. "Besides, _we_ don't know where we're going."

Which was true. As if to confirm this the train slowed as it passed through another station where the signs had all been removed or blacked out. Signposts at crossroads and village signs had been taken down. England, on the eve of war, was a mystery country.

The boy sniffed. "They'd find out," he said. "Or they might have spies for something else. Anyway, I'm sure I saw a girl back there doing magic. She was painting a picture book with plain water - and it came out in colours!"

Arabella thought for a moment, then got resolutely to her feet. "Come on. Let's go and ask her," she said.

The boy grabbed at her hand, horrified. "No! What if she _is_ a witch? She could turn us into toads or something!"

"If she is a witch," said Arabella, firmly, "she shouldn't be doing any magic out of school where Muggles might see. We could report her to the Ministry."

"If she hasn't turned us into toads," the boy muttered, but he looked slightly less doubtful as he picked up his gasmask.

Their destination was towards the middle of the train, and they had to push past other children, peering out through the windows at the passing countryside, hedged fields of cows giving way to ditches delineating patches of plough and green shoots with lone scarecrows, and, as they travelled further North, those giving way in turn to steep hillsides bisected by drystone walls with grazing sheep. It was all very different from the streets and orderly parks that the children had grown up with. Even Arabella, whose knowledge of the countryside was limited to the three weeks every year spent hop picking in Kent, and to the chickens in her grandfather's back yard, would have liked to stop and press her nose against the glass to watch this new, green world pass by.

As Arabella slid the door aside the children in the compartment looked up curiously.

"Hello," she said, brightly, singling out the girl with the picture book open on her lap. "Sorry to disturb you, but my friend saw you painting and he hasn't seen a book like that before. Is it really magic?" She ignored Argus' gasp of horror behind her. In Arabella's experience if you wanted information it was always best to ask directly.

The girl grinned. "I suppose it is," she said. "Mum gave it to me because I didn't have room to pack all my painting things. I hope there'll be somewhere I can get proper watercolours where we're going."

One of the boys frowned. Clearly he was worried about more important things than whether there would be paint boxes at the end of their journey. Nevertheless the girl handed over her book and Arabella studied it carefully. The pictures were of birds and animals and flowers – all Muggle ones. When she turned the cover over she saw, printed on the back, the name and address of a publisher in Manchester – a city that had no wizarding communities – and a Muggle patent number where a real wizard's book would have had the spell-maker's seal. The title confirmed it. No wizard would call something _The Magical Colouring Book_.

"That's clever," she said, handing it back. "How does it work?"

The question was destined never to be answered for at that moment there was a rattle and thud as the door to the compartment slid back and the guard, looking hot and harassed appeared in the doorway and called for attention.

"All right children. Pack up your traps and make sure you're in your assigned carriage. We'll be arriving at our destination in five minutes."

Pandemonium reigned as the children hurried to obey these orders. Arabella seized Argus' hand and hurried them both back along the corridor to their own compartment. The train was slowing already, leaving behind the open countryside to pass grey, blank-windowed factory buildings and the tall, soot-blackened mill chimneys. It looked very little different from the outer suburbs of London, the sheds and sidings of Clapham or Acton, but for the heather-dusted hills that rose to meet the blue skies beyond the buildings.

The train halted at last, with a jerk and a long sigh of brakes, at a station as anonymous as all the others. There was a moment's absolute quiet – before all the carriage doors crashed open and the evacuees tumbled out onto the platform. Arabella hauled down her case, then helped Argus with his, checking that they both had everything before turning her attention to the unfolding scene.

Further along the guard was calling instructions, marshalling the children into groups, directing some to waiting coaches which would take them onward to towns and villages further out into the countryside, and others to the station waiting room, where groups of adults who had volunteered their homes waited to select those girls and boys who would be staying with them. If the platform at Kings' Cross had been like the departure for Hogwarts school, this was like arriving at a cattle market.

Fortunately no one seemed to be paying attention to the two lone children who had alighted from the rear of the train. No one except a large black cat sitting on top of a milk churn that had been left beside a small gate at the end of the platform, and washing its ear with one curled paw.

Arabella looked around. "Someone was supposed to meet us," she said.

"Someone has." Argus pointed to the cat. "I bet that's a kneazle. They're magic!"

The cat stopped its washing, gave the children a long green stare, and then hopped from the top of the churn onto the gatepost, turning to present them with the sight of a pair of furry breeches and a long upright tail.

"I think we should follow it," Argus added.

Deferring to her new friend's experience of magic and wizard etiquette, Arabella nodded. They both picked up their things and pushed through the gate into the field beyond.

The cat led them along the edge of the field, round a tangle of blackberry bushes, and across a ditch spanned by a flat slab of stone in lieu of a bridge. Arabella was beginning to wonder whether they had made the right decision when a voice rose from behind another of the ubiquitous drystone walls.

"Drat! Bumbles and botheration! _Evanesco!_ Oh dear, it's no use. Mrs McCandy will _Crucio_ me!"

Arabella put her foot on the lower row of stones to give her height enough to look over the wall. In the field on the far side a young woman who could only be a witch was waving her wand frantically over a large Persian carpet spread out on the ground. Arabella gave a polite cough. "Er... Hello?"

The woman looked up, startled. "Oh! Oh dear. You really shouldn't have seen me. I was so careful."

Arabella stepped down and walked round the end of the wall, trailed by Argus. "It's all right," she said. "We're wizards too. Well, squibs. We just arrived on the train."

The witch looked relieved. "Oh. Thank goodness. I thought I'd missed you. I was going to meet the train but the wretched carpet came down right in a cowpat, and I've been trying to clean it up, but magic really doesn't work properly on magical objects. And I don't know what I'm going to say to our housekeeper. And I'm terribly sorry... How did you find me?"

"We followed the cat," said Arabella, pointing.

The witch followed her finger. There, sitting bolt upright in the middle of the carpet was the black cat. Its slitted green eyes looked very smug.

"'S'not a cat," said Argus, crossly. "It's a kneazle." He looked at the witch, who nodded.

"Yes, he's a kneazle. Not many people can tell the difference. You're a very noticing person."

Argus nodded absently, still watching the feline with interest. "What's his name?"

"I'm not sure that he has one," she admitted. "There are dozens of kneazles and cats around on the farm. Mostly we just call them 'Nuisance'."

The cat rose to its feet, stepped delicately off the carpet and started to wrap its body around the boy's legs. He bent to stroke it. "All cats have names," he said. "Even ordinary ones. This is Traveller."

"Well, he's certainly well travelled," said the witch. "I can't imagine how he managed to sneak out with me. Though they do say all cats can _Apparate_ , and kneazle fur is used to make invisibility cloaks. Well, you know Traveller's name. I'm Gussie Um... Longbottom. And who are you?"

"Argus Filch," he said, offering his hand in formal greeting.

Augusta took it in her lace-gloved one. "Oh. Are you one of the Norfolk Filch's? I'd heard that there were a lot of old pure-blood families out there. It's flat, isn't it? I'm afraid that you'll find our hills very different."

Argus gave a noncommittal nod. Augusta turned to Arabella who was fingering her address label and wondering whether she could trust someone who didn't appear to know her own name.

"I'm Arabella Doreen Figg," she said.

"But she likes to be called Harry," Argus added. Arabella glared at him over 'Gussie's' enveloping handshake.

"Hello then, Harry. Are you any relation to Peter Figg, of Figg's Transformative Theory?"

"He was my great grandfather," she admitted, and added, defiantly, "And he was Muggle-born."

"He was a very clever wizard," Augusta said. "He had a very organised mind. And it obviously runs in the family, since you've managed to get here safely." She surveyed the carpet again. "Which is more than I did. Oh dear, how am I going to get it clean?"

Arabella inspected the mess. "You could wait for it to dry," she said. "And then just brush it off. Wash out the stain and then get the smell out with diluted vinegar and baking soda."

"I was right," said Augusta. "You are very sensible. I wouldn't have thought of Muggle methods. But at least I can use a drying spell to start with, and the rest can be sorted out when we get home." She suited her action to her words, drying the carpet with a muttered spell, and transfiguring a handy stick into a brush to remove the mess. Fortunately the damage had been to the underside of the carpet. Once it had been dealt with and spread out again on a dry patch of ground, the children piled their luggage in the centre and, at Augusta's direction, took their own places on either side. The cat curled up on Argus' lap. Once satisfied that everything was safe and secure, Augusta gave the command and they rose smoothly up into the air.

Neither of the children were familiar with flying, either on broomsticks or carpets, and both kept their eyes tight shut for the first few minutes of the journey. When Arabella ventured to look they were flying along at just above tree-height, and it was not so very different from travelling in a train over a high viaduct – only with much less noise. She looked down at the passing countryside with interest. Augusta, noticing that both children were now used to this new form of travel, started to point out landmarks.

"That's the canal to Leeds – the Merryweather family used to run a boat service for wizards, but it's all Muggle wartime traffic now. That path goes to Meg's Spring – the water is good for making medical potions. There are supposed to be wild hippogriffs nesting on Calder Delph, but I've never seen any. Perhaps we can all go on a hunt for them later when you've settled in. That farm belongs to the Enderby's, they breed nogtails. And there below is Black Hall. The Blacks are our nearest wizard neighbours, but we try not to have too much to do with them. They're much too keen on this new pure-blood Separatist Movement."

"What's that?" asked Argus, pointing to where a Muggle vehicle was winding its way up the steep winding road that ran across the top of the moor.

Augusta frowned, directing the carpet to fly parallel to the moving vehicle. "It looks like one of the coaches that picked up the evacuees from the station. I wonder what it's doing up here? There's nothing but sheep-trails across the moor."

"There's something following it," Arabella said. "It looks like a horseless carriage. It just drove out of the gates of Black Hall."

Augusta bit her lip, casting her mind back to the ignored conversation between her mother and Mrs Black this morning. She had said something about 'important foreign visitors' and made dark hints at plans for dealing with Muggle evacuees. Was this strange pursuit of the Muggle coach part of some evil Separatist plot? She should take the children home before making any further enquiries, and was about to do so when the decision was taken out of her hands.

The cat, which had been curled up beside Argus, suddenly jumped to its feet, fur bristling along its shoulders and spine, and let out a howl.

There was a flash of magical light from the carriage below, and the coach came to a juddering halt, as if it had run into a solid wall. A wall of darkness. The sky overhead turned slate-grey and a cold fear gripped her heart an instant before she recognised the reason for it. What was circling the summit of the moor, rags of darkness drifting in the wind, were not clouds, but Dementors.

Augusta despaired. What could one young country witch do against this? The war was lost. She would never see her Lawrence again, never know the happiness of the family life they had planned together. Never defeat the coming storm. Never –

A hard grip on her arm broke the horror. Arabella was pulling at her. "Take us down!" she shouted. "We can't do magic. Get us down before we crash!"

They were already losing altitude, the carpet flipping along with no control. Augusta managed to remember the command, and they dropped back to earth with an ungainly thump. At least there were no cowpats.

The grip on her arm was still firm though, anchoring her with pain against despair. She was grateful that these were squib children, that they had some defence against the utter horror of what was circling the hill.

"Use your wand!" Arabella was shouting now, and that allowed her to concentrate. The coach full of children was standing, silent, on the summit of the moor. The Black carriage had drawn up behind it, and a wizard stood there, a man with a strong, vaguely Germanic cast to his features, his pale blond hair flowing from beneath his wizard's hat, over broad shoulders, his wand, long and slightly crooked in the Bavarian fashion, was aimed towards the coach, directing the attention of the Dementors to the Muggle inhabitants.

This was wrong. Wizards should not attack children. Driven by anger, Augusta drew her wand from her bag and, with a firm, sweeping motion, cast her Patronus. There was a flash of silver-grey light as a pair of wide, ragged wings unfurled and propelled her vulture skywards, bald head reared back and beak open in a silent scream of defiance. It met and struck at and through its prey, dispersing them into veils of terror that drifted away across the granite moors.

But Arabella had no time to watch it do its protective work. As soon as the debilitating miasma dispersed the wizard whirled to see who had challenged him. She recognised him then. The notorious Gellert Grindelwald. So this was what Walburga Black had meant about entertaining an important foreign visitor. The rumours about a separate wizards treaty, an appeasement with the enemy, were not unfounded after all.

She stood, taking a firmer grip on her wand; maintaining the link with her Patronus was important now. She didn't think that she could duel one of the most skilful wizards in Europe and protect the children, but she would try her best, as an Englishwoman and a witch.

He turned his wand on her. She braced herself – and then something swooped by overhead, there was the bright flash of a protective spell cast to envelope the coach, and a second flash as another Patronus, a phoenix, sprang into the air and joined her own. The caster, an auburn-haired wizard of about the same age as Grindelwald, brought his broom to a sliding halt and stepped off, all without moving his wand hand from its protective enchantments.

He turned and raised his hat to Augusta with his free hand. "Albus Dumbledore, at your service, Madam," he smiled. "I do hope you don't mind me joining this party?"

"Er... no. Please, be my guest." Was she really trading drawing room politenesses at wand-point, she wondered, as he took her invitation at face value and turned to her adversary.

"Drop your wand, Gellert," he said, in the tones of one expecting to be obeyed without question.

For answer the blond wizard turned his wand on the coach. The faces of terrified children could be seen at the windows. Arabella recognised one as the girl with the painting book from the train. If any proof was needed that she was not a witch they had it now. She screamed, silently, when the foreign wizard's wand targeted her. "Not until I've finished," he replied to Albus' command.

"Gellert! No! They're children!"

"They're Muggles," the other retorted. "As powerless as Squibs. They can't be allowed to stand in the way of the greater good. A fit world for wizards. You've said yourself, Albus, that you can't make a potion without stirring the cauldron."

The expression on the red-headed wizard's face was unreadable. His blue eyes glittered, and the knuckles of the hand that gripped his wand turned white. Arabella did not need her own magic to recognise that this Dumbledore was incredibly powerful. The other wizard, Gellert, recognised it too. His lips twisted in a sneer.

"Changed your mind, Albus. I thought that after what happened you'd hate Muggles."

"No," said Dumbledore, quietly. "No. I hate those who abuse the weak. Those who think that people who are 'different' are dangerous. It's not about wizards and Muggles, Gellert; it's not about power and weakness. It's about right and wrong. And what you and your friends are doing is wrong. And I, and every Muggle and squib who will listen to me, every witch and wizard, will oppose you and your kind with everything we have. And we are going to win this war."

The sneer grew unpleasant. "Dumbledore's defence force. Squibs and children and a pregnant witch. What a disorganised rabble."

Dumbledore looked up to where his patronus had joined Augusta's in keeping the Dementors at bay. "No," he said. "Not a rabble. An Order. The Order of the Phoenix. Children and witches and squibs and wizards. All together. And we are going to win this war. Just as we've won this battle."

He glanced at Augusta. "Hold them," he said.

She nodded, taking a double-handed grip on her wand. The vulture grew brighter and larger as Albus turned his own wand back on his adversary and the phoenix vanished.

But he had no time to cast even a protection. Before anyone could move Argus ran full tilt at his enemy, knocking him over with the force and speed of his arrival, and sending his wand spinning away across the turf.

Grindelwald, his concentration focussed on the magical threat, had completely missed, or discounted, the presence of the two squib children. And of the kneazle, which had followed in Argus' wake and now pounced on the wand, picking it up neatly in its mouth and trotting to Argus to drop it as his feet like an ordinary house cat presenting a dead mouse.

Grindelwald screamed in fury, but Dumbledore had recovered first to hold him with a immobility spell. "It seems," he said, "that children and witches and," – he nodded to Traveller, who was sitting bolt upright beside Argus and watching the proceedings with feline inscrutability – "and cats, have their uses after all."

"Albus, we were friends." Grindelwald was pleading now. "Give me back my wand and we can still sort this out. A few memory spells, and I'll go back home with none the wiser."

"No," said Dumbledore. "Our friendship is over." He looked across to where Argus stood with the wand in his hands. "Boy," he said quietly, "break it."

With a look of delight Argus took the wand in both hands and broke it across his grazed knee. It snapped with surprising ease, and the core, something brittle and crystalline, shattered and fell in a glittering circle of dust on the dark heather.

Grindelwald howled as if he had been broken rather than his wand – and perhaps he had.

Dumbledore gave him a look that had no trace of pity for his plight. "Now," he said, "you had better go back to where you came from. England does not need your kind here."

The look that Grindelwald gave him was sly. "How shall I do that without a wand, Albus?"

"You forget how well I know you, Gellert. You always did keep an escape route out of your plans. You have a portkey. Use it." He gestured to the gas mask case slung over the wizard's shoulder. Arabella blinked in surprise. The cases were so common, such an everyday part of what everybody now carried, that she had not even questioned why a wizard would need one.

Grindelwald swore, but Dumbledore's wand held steady, giving him no choice but to open the case. "I will be back," he said. "I and a thousand others. I have supporters in this country. They understand what an opportunity this war is to change the world for wizards." Then his fingers touched the portkey – and he was gone.

"And the Order of the Phoenix will be watching," said Dumbledore quietly.

Overhead the Dementors had fled and the grey clouds dispersed. Augusta lowered her own wand and took a long breath. Her mouth was dry, and her legs were shaking in reaction. Traveller left Argus and wound himself comfortingly around her ankles in furry reassurance.

"Well done," said Dumbledore. "And now I think introductions are in order. My name is Albus."

The ritual of performing introductions dispelled the last of the tension of the last hour. That completed, Albus turned his attention to the frozen bus and its inhabitants."I'm afraid that I will have to perform some small memory spells," he said, "but I'll soon have them back on their proper route, and then I'll follow you." He smiled and added, "Gussie, my dear, I was going to call on you anyway. I have a letter from Lawrence. He asked me to bring it since I was coming this way, and he really does not trust these flighty pigeons." He produced a folded and sealed parchment from the depths of his robes. 

Augusta resisted the urge to rip it from his hand and open it to read there and then. But there were the children to think of, and her husband's letter would be all the more precious if read when she had time to linger over every word. She pocketed it, and turned back to where Arabella and Argus were waiting. "Now," she said, shepherding them back to the magic carpet, "I think that we should all go home to Wicken Tree House and have tea and scones and a good thick strawberry jam – how does that sound?"

"And cream for Traveller?" Argus asked.

"Of course. And lashings of butterbeer."

And so they did.

The End of the Adventure.


End file.
